There are a couple of nice pubs in Malahide but that's not the proper northside so it doesn't count. But come into town, keeping north of the river, and there's a real dearth of drinking establishments.

This is why I sometimes worry about the Abbey. It's not too badly served on the predinner eating front . . . though at the risk of sounding like my colleague Chris Binchy, our visit last week to the revamped Sherries was a huge disappointment (probably should have stuck to the omelette) . . . but once you've left the Abbey, with Paul Mercier's high-octane play racing round your head and a need to dissect its themes . . . there's nowhere to go. To compound the problem, on the night we went it was raining, and so proximity to the theatre was a priority. But the pub across the road is shut down and that other one nearby seems to have been mentioned in a few too many crime reports for my liking.

So we went to Wynne's. Maybe we'll pick up a priest, I suggested hopefully to my companions. Wynne's used to be full of priests and with this new ethos of glasnost where clerical celibacy is concerned, you'd never know your luck.

But pulling a priest or even a penitent was just never going to happen there. The salt and pepper cellars were still out on the tables and the scattering of bodies looked like they were still contemplating a particularly miserable funeral. Worst of all, the place was incredibly brightly lit. It reminded me of nothing less than my mother-in-law's sitting room, which for unaccountable reasons benefits from three 600-watt bulbs in the overhead light fitting and three other 100-watt lamps strategically arranged around the room.

Here's how big it is: stretch your arms out to their full length and take three steps along a wall; now square it. Sometimes, I fear jumbo jets will land there.

Anyway, Wynne's is substantially bigger, but there was still no excuse for its supertrouper approach to discreet lightning. So we left and went across the road to Madigan's where . . . unbelievably . . . it was almost as bright. The last time I was in Madigan's was to meet a friend after I'd acquired a heinous haircut. She laughed so much that we ended up leaving without even having a drink . . . her in a taxi, me in high dudgeon . . . and that was before they turned up the dimmer switch. Were I to have met her in there last week on a bad hair evening, she might have died.

But the rain was still falling so on this occasion, we stayed in this well-lit emporium for a decent time. The doorman had apologised as we entered because it was "the Joe Dolan hour". We might have appreciated his sympathy more when that gave way to The Cranberries hour, but by then, our pupils had dilated to the size of pinheads and fearing a sort of night blindness if we went anywhere else, we stayed. When we went to the ladies, we discovered that there . . . and there alone . . .

they had ultra violet light. One of my companions, who lives on the northside, says it's to stop heroin addicts from finding a vein. Imagine. It occurred to me that it would also make a line of cocaine unmissable, but then, I am not from these parts. But I would happily spend more time in them if only they had a few more decent pubs. And no, Stringfellow's doesn't count.

Mopping up medals

SO how is the Winter Olympics going for you? I caught a couple of rounds (rounds? ) of the curling last weekend and it occurred to me that I might have finally found a sport that I would be less than risible at.

Obviously, it is a stupid, stupid activity but that's never stopped the Olympics people from giving a game a thumbs up in the past.

As to my own chances of striking gold, I would be hindered somewhat by a complete inability to slide, but I could more than compensate on the old 'brushing the ice' front. Even The Husband was compelled to admit that my floor-sweeping and mopping technique is second to none. Show me a stone and a yard of ice, and I could curl for Ireland. Is there a grant available?

I'm not 4men, okay

CONGRATULATIONS to all the smart alecs who've contacted me since last Sunday in an apparently hilarious attempt to buy men's cosmetics. Congratulations, too, to Fiona Looney of 4men. ie, whose company was mentioned in this paper last Sunday, prompting a general sense of giddiness in my family and friends. For the last time . . . no is the answer. As to the question, I think what alarmed me most was that my own parents thought it was me.

Even dissuaded, my father still persisted that it was "a very good idea". So was the Suez Canal. But that was't me either. Is this how John Byrnes feel every day?